


Five Times Gaston Kisses Lefou

by clingylefou (dearcst)



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: 5 + 1, 5 Times, Alternate Universe - High School, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, Little bit of angst, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, lots of kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 20:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10704657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcst/pseuds/clingylefou
Summary: ... And one time Lefou kisses Gaston.





	Five Times Gaston Kisses Lefou

**Author's Note:**

> If you're unfamiliar with US school systems (I did US school system bc I'm most familiar with it as a US citizen whoops sorry) The grade levels go:
> 
> Freshman, Sophomore, Junior, Senior 
> 
> This is written off a tumblr post by @reaty!

_One_

The first time, they are ten years old. Gaston is taller, his limbs are like tree branches in their nature of movement. Lefou, he is shorter, chubbier, smaller, cuter. They are next-door neighbors, and visit each other every day after school. It’s normally at Gaston’s house simply because Lefou likes to follow Gaston around. It is just after school, and Lefou is bubbling with energy, talking endlessly about something they’d done in PE that day. Fifth grade is a gentle time.

 

They are sitting in the grass of the backyard, hidden away by the branches of a grand willow tree. In the middle of Lefou’s rambling, Gaston interrupts him. It’s something he does often, and Lefou doesn’t mind because he knows Gaston has something far more interesting to say.

 

“Have you been kissed?”

 

Lefou blinks in surprise. “No,” he makes a face. “Sounds gross.”

 

Gaston shrugs, leaning backwards on his elbows. “Some girls were talking about it today,” he says casually.

 

“Okay,” Lefou isn’t sure where Gaston is going with this, so he allows him to lead the conversation.

 

And he does.

 

“I’m just saying,” Gaston looks away, “It’d be good to have experience going in. I wouldn’t want to look stupid for my first kiss.”

 

Then, Gaston looks over at Lefou. His eyes tell stories his lips forbid, like he’s expecting Lefou to understand what he isn’t saying.

 

“I guess,” Lefou shrugs. “I don’t care, though. It seems dumb.”

 

Gaston presses his lips together, looking down at Lefou’s mouth for a fraction of a second, and then down at the ground. His hands pick at the grass. Gaston seems too expectant, like there was a script Lefou was supposed to be aware of, supposed to have been rehearsing for months and today was the performance—but he wasn’t saying the scripted lines.

 

“What?” Lefou asks.

 

Gaston lets out a big breath of air. He looks up at Lefou determined.

 

“I’m trying to say—“ his voice stops like a buffering video, “I want to practice.”

 

Lefou squints his eyes in confusion. “Okay,” he says slowly, “With who?”

 

Gaston sits up abruptly, slamming his hands on the ground. His face is flushed, with frustration? Embarrassment?

 

“You!” Gaston blurts.

 

Lefou’s eyes widen. His heart skips as if jumping double-dutch jump rope.

 

They start talking at the same time:

 

“I just—“

 

“I thought—“

 

They stop.

 

And like most times, Gaston talks first.

 

“I’m just saying, I’d rather it be with someone I know won’t judge me,” Gaston’s words are shot out in quick succession.

 

There’s a pause where Lefou would be expected to speak, but Lefou can’t get words to work. He’d always thought kissing was done between girls and boys, not boys and boys. The prospect is novel, confusing, enticing. Lefou ponders the idea he’d never even considered until this moment, heart speeding up in his chest, racing, racing, never to be slowed down.

 

“Forget I said anything,” Gaston says, voice sharp and bitter as he pulls his knees to his chest.

 

“No!” Lefou rushes to say. “No, I mean. I’ll do it.”

 

Gaston looks over at him, a hint of a smile crawling over his face.

 

“Really?”

 

Lefou nods three times, fast and messy. He sits cross-legged facing Gaston now, folding his hands in his lap.

 

“Yeah.”

 

They look at each other for a few seconds. Time passes like a tug of war.

 

“Okay,” Gaston says.

 

“Okay,” Lefou answers.

 

And they sit there for a few moments more. Then, bravery kindles like a newborn fire in Gaston’s eyes. He leans forward—

 

Their lips meet, and Lefou’s eyes slip shut. He feels Gaston lean over him, feels his body heat burst the bubble of personal space Lefou had grown used to over the years. His heart is vibrating in his chest. His throat had long since closed up. He can’t get his brain to work.

 

Gaston kisses him softly, unlike anything else Lefou had ever seen Gaston do. Gaston was strong, fast, relentless. Gaston was brash. Gaston was rude. Gaston’s kisses are nothing like Gaston.

 

Then, Gaston pulls back after what seems simultaneously like a century and half a second. His mouth hovers over Lefou’s, and they’re a breath apart. Lefou shudders at the sensation of Gaston’s breath atop his lips.

 

“Was I good?” Gaston asks in a voice so quiet, so timid. Lefou doesn’t recognize him.

 

Gaston asks this question a lot. He’d asked it the first time he threw a baseball. He’d asked it the first time he ran a mile. He’d asked it the first time they played video games together. And every time Gaston asks, Lefou gives the same answer.

 

“You were _amazing_.”

 

His voice is frail with the weight of his certainty.

_Two_

Since the first kiss, Lefou has had to completely redefine himself. Before that moment, he had never considered the possibility of kissing boys—Now he was. And suddenly, the prospect of kissing isn’t gross anymore as long as it’s kissing a boy; the prospect of loving someone is so much nearer, the prospect of having Gaston as his best friend is so much dustier. Dustier in the way the Lefou can’t clearly see Gaston as his best friend anymore. It’s something different. It’s something he doesn’t want to think about.

 

Gaston doesn’t treat him any differently, though. That’s the frustrating part. What turned Lefou’s world upside has no effect on Gaston. Lefou questions his sanity, questions his memory of the kiss, questions Gaston’s actions and words and intentions.

 

But it in the end it doesn’t matter. Because it quite obviously will never happen again.

 

In middle school, Lefou meets Stanley. Stanley is similar to Gaston in his temper and his strength, but dissimilar in his persona. Stanley is more considerate. He doesn’t interrupt Lefou when Lefou is speaking. And so Lefou and Stanley grow closer, grow to be friends, and then closer friends. Still, their connection is hardly compares to what Lefou has with Gaston. It’s incomprehensible the way that Lefou constantly compares everyone he meets with Gaston. It’s as if Gaston is the measuring tape with which to measure other boys, as if Gaston is the inches or the centimeters the other boys are measured in.

 

Still, Lefou likes Stanley a lot.

 

Both of them stay late after class, sitting outside the classroom door in the hallway. Lefou had always been awful at English, and Stanley is trying to tutor him. Stanley’s finger moves along the page, and Lefou watches each movement. Soon the finger halts on a word, and Lefou realizes he’s stopped listening.

 

He looks up, and Stanley suddenly seems so much closer.

 

It’s nothing spoken like it was with Gaston, but instead it’s like Stanley is the center of gravity. Stanley leans in first, and Lefou meets him halfway.

 

The book slips off Lefou’s lap, and Stanley’s hand comes to touch Lefou’s cheek. It’s hot, messy, electric. Still throughout, Lefou compares each movement and slide of their lips to how it felt two years ago with Gaston. It’s the constant comparison that almost makes Lefou believe he’d imagined Gaston’s voice. But it is too real to be fabricated.

 

“Lefou—“ Gaston’s voice is loud, but stops immediately.

 

Stanley and Lefou break apart. They look at each other quick and abashed, then Stanley gathers his books.

 

“Um. I’ll see you tomorrow, Lefou,” Stanley says, flustered.

 

Lefou nods. “Bye,” he says. The word seems inadequate.

 

Stanley hurries away, hardly glancing at Gaston as he rushes past him. Then Lefou and Gaston are left alone in the hallway. Lefou avoids Gaston’s eye, but doesn’t move to pick up his things. It feels like some kind of conversation should take place. It feels like Lefou should defend himself.

 

“I was looking for you,” Gaston says absently. His voice is hollow.

 

Lefou starts to pick up his things now, putting them into his backpack.

 

“Sorry,” he says. His voice is rough. He knows his face is reddened from embarrassment and attraction. “I was here. Studying. With. Um.”

 

“With Stanley,” Gaston finishes. It shouldn’t be an accusation, but it sounds like one.

 

“Yeah,” Lefou walks past Gaston, too, then turns around and motions for Gaston to follow. “Let’s go.”

 

They walk in silence. It’s the type of silence where there are words buzzing around them to fill it, but they aren’t spoken. They’re questions that none of them are saying. They’re accusations and arguments yet to be made real. Lefou doesn’t understand it. He shouldn’t feel guilty. He and Gaston aren’t dating. Gaston isn’t even _interested_. They kissed once. Two years ago. It didn’t mean anything.

 

“I didn’t know you were...” Gaston searches for words. Lefou lets him. “Gay.”

 

Lefou shrugs. “It isn’t like I advertise it.”

 

Gaston looks at him sharply. It’s that thing where Gaston expects Lefou to say one thing, and Lefou ends up saying another.

 

“Still. I should know.”

 

Lefou laughs. It’s funny because it’s absurd. Gaston should have no right to Lefou’s privacy. But it’s funny, because he does.

 

“Well,” Lefou’s words carry little weight. They’re flimsy with feigned nonchalance. “I am.”

 

They keep walking in that not-quite-silence. At Gaston’s house, they go up to Gaston’s bedroom like they normally do. Usually, Gaston sits on his bed and Lefou sits on the floor. Usually, they talk about things they’re interested in or about things they aren’t interested in or about teachers they hate or about tests that are coming up.

 

But Lefou sits down on the floor, and Gaston sits down next to him. Gaston seems like he tries to start saying something several times, but he can’t quite figure out how to say it.

 

Then, he does.

 

“How do you know?” Gaston says. His voice is strong. It rings like timpani drums.

 

“Know what?”  


“That you’re gay.”

 

Lefou can’t help it. He starts laughing, holds his side, and laughs with his entire being.

 

“What?” Gaston demands.

 

“You!” Lefou says. He collects himself. “How do you know you’re straight?”

 

Gaston bristles. “I—“ he stops.

 

Lefou looks at him expectantly for an answer he knows doesn’t exist.

 

“It’s just what I’m interested in,” Lefou relents. “It doesn’t have a strict definition. It just happens.”

 

Gaston pauses. He looks thoughtful.

 

“Then I should try,” Gaston announces, chin up, “to see what happens.”

 

Lefou raises an eyebrow. “Okay,” he says slowly. “With who?”

 

A grin slowly creeps onto Gaston’s face.

 

“You,” he says as if Lefou should already know the answer to his own question. “Do you want to?”

 

A wave of nostalgia rushes over Lefou’s body. It all feels so familiar. After so long of telling himself it would never happen again, Lefou finds himself in such a surreal situation. Although he’d like to say he feels some semblance of hesitation, it would be such a ludicrous lie.

 

“Sure,” Lefou shrugs one shoulder, and turns to face more towards Gaston.

 

This time he tries to brace himself, tries to slow his heart enough, tries to remain casual and unfeeling.

 

He fails.

 

Gaston leans forwards forcefully, and their lips meet in a firm push of passion. Lefou moves his head backward, and Gaston chases him. Lefou’s heart bursts like a helium balloon with too much air pumped into it. It’s passionate, real, and nothing like Lefou had ever experienced before. The first time it was so gentle, and though this time retains some semblance of tenderness, it is much more confident and strong. Lefou wants to count the seconds until Gaston pulls away. Wants to catalogue everything that happens. Wants to forget it at the same time.

 

Gaston pulls back abruptly, leaving Lefou astonished and chilled in the places Gaston used to be touching him.

 

“I don’t see the difference,” Gaston says ponderingly.

 

Lefou nods, speechless. His phone buzzes next to him—his mom texting him, asking if he was going to be home for dinner or if he was staying at Gaston’s.

 

“Oh, shoot,” Lefou grabs his things. “I’ve got to get home. It’s late.”

 

Gaston nods, waving goodbye. “See you.”

 

“Bye.” This time, his words are anchored, heavy, and real.

 

_Three_

It’s freshman year. They’ve both just entered high school. Gaston has gained instant popularity, and Lefou is content to walk around in his shadow; however, this instant popularity means invitation to parties.

 

Lefou isn’t much for socialization, but he likes being around Gaston which puts him in the line for constant talking with people he’s never seen before. He’s popular by association. Girls come up to flirt with Gaston, and often times they turn to Lefou, too, and twirl their hair and bat their eyes and smile in a I’m-trying-to-be-pretty-for-you way. (It’s a stifled type of pretty, insincere and unnatural).

 

And so that’s where Lefou and Gaston are now: stuck at some party, surrounded by sighing girls and half-empty beer bottles.

 

Well—there’s one entirely empty beer bottle in the center of them. They’re sitting a circle around it.

 

Someone suggests they play Spin the Bottle, and the girls nod eagerly, staring at Gaston all the while. A couple more people join in. Lefou is unfamiliar with the game.

 

A couple spins later, Lefou completely understands.

 

Looking around, Lefou feels nervous. He doesn’t want to kiss anyone here, but if he leaves Gaston would question him, or worse, he wouldn’t and Lefou would be left to wander around alone until Gaston is done. It just seems like the better option to try to get through the game. He’s seen Gaston kiss many girls before, so he isn’t entirely bothered by it. It’s sort of like pressing your finger against a bruise: a dull irritation rather than pain.

 

But then, Gaston spins the bottle again, and it lands on Lefou.

 

They look at each other. Gaston looks uneasy. Lefou looks petrified.

 

“You can spin again,” Lefou sputters, shaking his gaze away.

 

A chorus of _boos_ erupt from the people around them. Even a few people outside the game stop talking and turn their attention towards Gaston and him.

 

Gaston scoffs, nods his head to the side in a characteristic way of his. He has a personality that switches on and off like a lightbulb around a crowd. Lefou very much prefers the personality Gaston reserves for the quiet moments after school when everyone else has left them alone.

 

Lefou wants to think Gaston would let the game go and shrug everyone off, but if he truly thought that he wouldn’t know Gaston. Gaston doesn’t back down from challenges. Which is why he isn’t at all surprised when Gaston grabs his chin and presses their lips together.

 

It’s a different kiss than before. But aren’t they always? This one is obviously a theatrical show. Gaston tilts his chin so that it’s easy to see the slick sliding of their lips together— then, Gaston’s tongue slides into Lefou’s mouth, and, _God_ , he’d never done that before. Lefou can’t help the fire that ignites his being. It’s like Lefou is dry leaves and Gaston is a bonfire. Every touch of his hand to Lefou’s flesh drives him farther and farther from the brink of sanity.

 

Then Gaston pulls away, and it’s then that the world comes back to Lefou like a computer just starting up again. He realizes that everyone around them had been whistling and cheering. Gaston grins, leaning back cockily and spins the bottle again. The game continues. Gaston kisses other people. The game continues, but Lefou cannot. His mind is a scratched record, skipping and skipping and replaying and replaying what had just happened.

 

At one points he gets up and leaves. He doesn’t check to see if Gaston is following him, and he doesn’t care. He pushes past the crowds with murmurs of _excuse me_ ’s and _sorry_ ’s. He leaves on his own. Gaston can find someone else to take him home.

 

He texts Gaston: _Mom needs me home now. She’s upset. Sorry._

 

Gaston replies immediately: _Are you okay?_

 

Lefou lets it go unanswered.

 

_Four_

 

Lefou decides very strictly that he will never allow Gaston to kiss him ever again. Ever. Never ever ever ever.

 

Because to Gaston, their kisses are simple things of very little significance, and to Lefou they hold the weight of the Jupiter and all its moons.

 

So it won’t happen again.

 

Two years later, they’re juniors in high school, and Lefou had long since grown to love theater. He took a drama class for the fine arts credit as a freshman, but something in it captivated him. It’s something that allows him to forget who he is presently and become someone else. Someone else who isn’t consumed by someone who doesn’t want him. The ideation of it is entirely too enticing.

 

It’s the first day of school again. Lefou is grinning as he says hello to the returning students he’d since befriended. His smile falls on a familiar face. Suddenly, he can’t breathe.

 

“Gaston,” he says, deadpan.

 

For years theater had been his safe place, somewhere where he didn’t think about Gaston or any of his unrequited feelings. It was an escape.

 

Gaston’s smile stretches wide. It’s brilliant. “Lefou!” he gives Lefou a hug. “You don’t look that happy to see me.”

 

“No, no!” Lefou shakes his head. He shouldn’t be so negative. After all, Gaston _is_ his best friend. “I’m sorry. I’m just surprised.

 

“How did you get into this theater class? Shouldn’t you be with the beginner class?”

 

Gaston shrugs. “I requested this one to be with you,” he says. “Well, I said to be with my peers instead of freshmen. And my audition was good enough that they allowed me.”

 

Of course Gaston would be good at this too. Is there nothing Gaston can’t do perfectly?

 

“I wanted to see what you liked about this place so much,” Gaston says. “You talk quite a bit about it.”

 

Lefou says, “It’s fun,” and stops there. There really is nothing else to say.

 

Having Gaston in class isn’t as bad as Lefou predicts it to be. It’s uncomfortable at first, disruptive, but he becomes used to it. Moreover, he loves to see Gaston act. It’s a beautiful sight. Gaston’s arms move in flourishing movements, his voice has a booming quality that’s always amazing in theater, and he seems to even have a talent for it. But in Lefou’s eyes, Gaston has a talent for everything. He is like King Midas in his way of turning anything he touches to gold.

 

That is, until the lesson on romantic readings in literature.

 

It’s nothing they haven’t done before. It’s one of the first things they learn because it’s something that often makes people uncomfortable; the teacher goes over it like ripping off a bandaid.

 

But they’re reading through _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , and it’s only fitting that Gaston play Dorian Gray, a man who sells his soul to be beautiful forever. Lefou is assigned to play Sibyl, Dorian Gray’s love interest in the beginning of the play before he rejects her and Sibyl kills herself. Lefou wants to laugh at the irony at it all. He forgets himself, though, and allows himself to be consumed in the work.

 

In regular class read-throughs, the students sit at a table closest to whom their characters interact most with. They read the lines, but perform no stage actions. There are no hand gestures, extra movements, or stage-kisses.

 

Let Lefou stress: there should be _no stage-kisses_.

 

So when it is scripted that Sibyl and Dorian kiss, Lefou looks right over it, and open his mouth to continue delivering lines— but Gaston has other ideas.

 

Suddenly, Lefou is pushed backwards. Gaston’s hand is flat on his chest, and his lips cover his own in a soft, passionate motion. As far as stage-kisses go, this one is intense. There’s always an unspoken rule that there’s no technique involved. It’s just the pressing of the lips together for the audience’s sake. But Gaston is kissing him, _really_ kissing him, with gasps and licks and suction.

 

A flurry of emotions shake Lefou from his character. He shoves Gaston away from him.

 

“What the _hell?_ ” he demands, heart in his throat, ripping at the seams and bleeding through his chest. His lips vibrate with the loss of touch.

 

“I thought—“  


“It’s a _read-through_. That means you _skip_ the stage directions.”

 

Lefou stands abruptly. He’s shaking. He hates himself for letting this happen again. He hates himself for how he reacts to it.

 

He pushes his chair back and walks swiftly to the bathroom pass hanging on the wall. He grabs it. He leaves.

 

 _Gaston doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. It’s just a game to him. It’s funny to him. Don’t allow yourself to think he actually cares about you that way_.

 

Lefou locks himself in one of the bathroom stalls, putting a hand on his own chest. His heart is rampant. Why does he always do this? He’s so easily swept off his feet by someone who doesn’t know or care they’re doing what they’re doing to him. To Gaston, kissing is as simple as a handshake. It isn’t even intimate to Gaston anymore, Lefou is sure.

 

The door opens, and Lefou hears footsteps outside the stalls.

 

“Lefou?” Gaston’s voice isn’t unsure because Gaston is never unsure. He is confident and self-assured. His voice is gentler than stern, but firmer than soft.

 

“Leave me alone,” Lefou says. He’s tired. He doesn’t want to deal with Gaston right now, especially not in this state.

 

“I don’t understand why you’re upset,” true to his word, Gaston sounded perplexed. “It’s nothing we haven’t done before.”

 

The words strike Lefou in the chest like the blunt end of a wooden staff, knocking the wind out of him without doing any physical damage.

 

“You’re right,” Lefou says bitterly, “It’s nothing we haven’t done before.”

 

Gaston only sounds more thrown when he says, “What’s wrong with you?”

 

“ _Just_ ,” Lefou’s voice is tense like the E string of a violin wound too tight, about to snap and break. “Just leave it alone.”

 

Quietness comes for them like a gust of wind, blowing away their words as if they were tangible letters in the air to be affected. Gaston stands there for a few minutes more before he turns and leaves. Lefou listens to each of his steps, and cannot breathe again until the door shuts. He lets out all the air in his lungs, falling forward into his hands. He feels insane. He feels senseless.

 

He doesn’t move again until the bell rings for the next class. He doesn’t see Gaston until class the next day. Lefou doesn’t talk to him.

 

_Five_

 

Slowly but surely they fall back into their rhythm. Lefou just needed time to adjust. He needed to understand that Gaston just obliviously toyed with his feelings. He understands that now. It isn’t intentional. It isn’t ill will. It just happens.

 

So it’s nearing the end of high school. Graduation is in three months. Everything Lefou has known up until this point is nearing to a close. It’s exhilarating as much as it is anxiety-inducing.

 

Lefou had long since stopped visiting Gaston after school. They aren’t children anymore. They’re starting to become their own people. Gaston has been befriending a group of people, and Lefou another. They slowly drift apart without ever fully losing sight of each other. Lefou thinks it’s for the best. Their relationship was too complicated to be anything concrete.

 

It’s the last week to get prom tickets. Lefou only knows because there are posters and whispers and gossip every Lefou goes. Everyone is talking about dates and groups and dancing and music. Lefou, as aforementioned, cares little for socialization, and without Gaston to drag him along, Lefou can’t find himself interested in going.

 

He’s doing homework in his bedroom when comes a knock at the door. Since there was a knock, Lefou can only assume it’s his mom. But it isn’t. It’s Gaston. The idea of Gaston ever taking proper precautions is ridiculous. Gaston doesn’t knock to enter. Gaston enters and trumpets blare. There is nothing polite about Gaston in any way shape or form.

 

Lefou looks at Gaston for the first time in months. Not the type of looking where the eyes skim over the figure, or the kind of looking where you might notice a shirt buttoned incorrectly; but the artistic kind of looking, where you might notice the proportions of the body and the difference in color from one cheek to the next. Gaston looks older, less childish and irrational. Lefou’s heart aches at the sight of him.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Gaston closes the door behind him. He holds up a small blue piece of paper, akin to a type of ticket you might get at the fair to ride the Ferris wheel. It’s Gaston doing that thing again where he assumes that Lefou knows what to do with the inadequate amount of provided information.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Prom ticket. Are you going?” Gaston’s voice sounds different. If his voice were a person and that person were standing on a stone in the middle of river rapids—that’s how his voice sounds.

 

Lefou puts his textbook down. “No,” he says. “Not really.”

 

Gaston holds the ticket out to Lefou.

 

“Here, then,” Gaston says. His voice is somehow able to sound certain and hesitant at the same time. “We’ll go together.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Prom. Us.”

 

“Is this your attempt at asking me to join you and your friends and your date to prom?” Lefou’s temper shortens like a stick of butter left on a stovetop. “I’m _not_ _going_.”

 

“No,” Gaston says. “We’re going together.”

 

Lefou stares dumbly.

 

Gaston clarifies: “No one else.”

 

Still, Lefou cannot comprehend. It’s like the world stopped turning. Like gravity suddenly gave up on holding Lefou to the earth.

 

“What?” the word sticks to his tongue.

 

Gaston takes a step forward. Lefou holds up a hand to halt him.

 

“No,” he says, “No. No, you’re not doing this again.”

 

“Doing what?”

  
“This!” Lefou throws his hands up. “Doing _this_ where you act like you care for me and then act like nothing ever happened. Where you charm me and kiss me and then—“ his voice stops, strangled by his throat. He finishes: “And then leave me.”

 

“You left me,” Gaston says, affronted. “In my bedroom. At the party. In theater class. You left _me_.”

 

“Because you don’t care! To you it’s just—“

 

“Just what?” Gaston pushes his chest out defensively. “Tell me. What do you _think_ I feel?”

 

Lefou’s breathing is stuttering and broken. It’s getting more difficult to remain calm. All of the feelings that were building up through the years is starting to surface, starting to fight to come out.

 

“Just… For fun,” Lefou finishes lamely. “You don’t feel the same as I feel.”

 

Lefou’s chest is on fire. His face feels hot with emotions that refused to be controlled. He grabs at the blankets on his bed, pulling them closer to himself in some sort of defense.

 

“I love you,” Gaston’s words are lightening in a dry storm. They strike Lefou down, light him aflame, and there is no rain to put out the fire. “I love you, I kiss you, and then _you_ leave in a rush, won’t let me say anything. I use any kind of excuse I can find to try to get closer to you, thinking maybe this time you’ll be okay with it,” Gaston’s words trail off. “But you leave. Not me. I don’t leave, Lefou.”

 

Lefou is speechless. For the life of him, he can’t find a single word. Gaston stands there in front of him, the blue ticket crumpled in his fist, and awaits his words—but there are none. Could Gaston be right? Could it have been that Lefou was the one that left time after time under the pretense that Gaston didn’t care? That Lefou had fabricated an entire persona for Gaston without his confirming it?

 

It bears repeating that Lefou cannot find anything to say.

 

He pushes the blankets off himself, sits up, and reaches out. He takes Gaston by the wrist.

 

For the first time in his life, it is he who leans in, not Gaston.

 

_Plus One._

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING FAM comments always make my day <3 
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at @clingylefou


End file.
